


Love, Actually

by emma_and_orlando



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Housekeeper!Roger, Language Barrier, Love Actually AU, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, writer!Brian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando
Summary: Brian's boyfriend cheats on him so he flees to the French countryside to finish his book. He forgot to tell the new housekeeper he's returning early.Or: Love Actually AU (Aurelia and Jamie’s storyline)
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor
Comments: 26
Kudos: 62





	Love, Actually

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BisexualRoger (HyperPluviophile)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperPluviophile/gifts).



> Because I know you absolutely dislike Love Actually this is yet another loving attempt to show you how this is quite literally the best Christmas romcom the world has ever given us. Merry Christmas ❤️ and happy holidays to everyone reading along.
> 
> Btw! Every dialogue in italics is in French!

**Six weeks before Christmas**

Love, actually means fuck all. Brian learns that the hard way.

He's never packed up a bag faster than he did on the afternoon he found his boyfriend Tim in their bed with their best friend Damien. 

Brian only took the bare necessities when he couldn't stand the thought of spending another second in their tainted flat. All he took was some clothes to change in, the basics of his manuscript, his wallet and his passport. Before he left in the cab, he only made three phone calls. One to his mum to let her know he will be gone until Christmas, another with the same message to a very concerned Freddie. The last call goes to John, who immediately reassures him that he will have Tim out of the flat by the end of the week. 

"Thank you." Brian exhales as quietly as he can. He can feel their eyes burn in the back of his neck. None of them moves or makes a sound for a long moment, Tim and Damien are still there, holding their breath, watching him. He hunches around the phone, feeling sick to the stomach. "I wouldn't know how to."

"I'll take care of him." John presses again. "Don't worry about that. I'll have him out if he doesn't go by himself... I just— Where are you going to go?"

"France."

He takes the first available flight to Carcassonne international airport in Southern France. The journey goes by in a fast flurry of security, air pressure and mops of people shuffling around with their kids under their arms or their suitcases dragging behind them.

Brian arrives in Carcassonne and goes to the nearest car rental to hire the most obnoxious vintage car with an open hood. 

He brought only one CD (Led Zeppelin II) to blast through the speakers as he crosses along the French countryside. 

After publishing his first best-selling novel five years ago, around the same time he started dating Tim, he'd bought the tiny farmhouse in the Midi-Pyrénées close to Marciac. 

What had appealed him to the old rusty home was its charm, the large garden and the lake inhabited by many living creatures one could see through the large windows in the master bedroom. 

By the time he drives the car onto his terrain, the sun is setting behind the mountains and there is smoke coming out of the chimney. 

All year around the housekeeper Ann looks after the house to keep it in good condition. She is an elderly woman with five children and fascinating stories to tell about her time during the last world war. Sometimes she does more talking than working, but Brian doesn't have the heart to tell her off. 

Her promised presence and the vintage house are a sight for sore eyes.

Brian parks the car outside and walks around it to grab his bag from the backseat without tearing his eyes off the house. 

It looks to be in a better condition than it has been for years.

The little pebbles of brown stones making up the walls of the house are scrubbed clean. Vines and flowers grow around the entrance. The garden is vibrant with rows upon rows of new plants and vegetables resting for the winter but with the promise to crop out when the weather improves. There is a path to the front door now, which previously had just been uneven high grass, made with the same stones from the outer walls of the farmhouse. Everything is looking kept, taken care of, cleaned or contained in one way or another. 

He bristles at the idea of Ann hiring a handyman with her own money to get all this upkeeping done, but worse is the idea that she had done this work all by herself. 

The locks must have been lubricated because his key glides in smoother than the rusty steel has ever allowed. Brian pushes through the door a little hesitant. Usually, the creaking door would announce his appearance but someone has changed the hinges, making his entrance deadly silent and he doesn't want to give her a fright.

"Ann?" He shuts the door with a purposely noisy slam. "Sorry I didn't call in advance."

He starts with removing his scarf, which he throws over one shoulder while he unbuttons his coat on his way into the kitchen where he hears rustling. 

"I was just in such a rush I couldn't call in advance, but I'll be—"

Halfway through the door, Brian pauses abruptly when he lays eyes on a gorgeous young man dusting off the cabinets. At first, he is too flabbergasted to grasp how to react appropriately in this scenario. It is only when a pair of piercing blue eyes meet his, Brian's heart starts to pound fiercely. 

Out of all the things he should be saying to an intruder, he goes with, "You're NOT old Anne." 

The young bloke has the most adorable little furrow between his brows and in that split second of distraction, Brian suddenly has the feather duster pointed straight at him as the man starts backing Brian out of the kitchen, speaking in rapid French that does not ring any bells with the few basics Brian remembers from school. 

" _Who are you?! Get the hell out of here! This is private property_!" 

Brian raises his hands in surrender to the feather duster, but grows increasingly more concerned when his back hits the front door and he realizes that he is being chased off of his own property. 

"Ouch!" The man actually pokes him. "Wait, it's me— It's— I'm Brian. Brian May. I own the place."

This makes the man pause in his movements. It is not the English that rings a bell with him, but the name.

Brian puts his hands on his chest, a little panicked and gestures at himself. "Brian May. Me. Eh— my maison. Yes? Do you understand? Comprehende...? God is that even French."

He is all but ready to give up and come to terms with the fact that he had lost his house to a French-speaking feater dust wielder who is fifteen centimetres shorter than him.

"Oh. _Oh_." His eyes widen comedically wide as he lowers the duster. " _I'm sorry_." Je suis désolé, he says, whatever that means. He must notice the confusion displayed all over Brian, and scratches his head to find the English words.

"Eh— sorry." He adds with a heavy accent. He extends his hand out to Brian a little sheepishly. "Roger. _I'm the new housekeeper_." 

Falling blank on his french again, Brian clears his throat awkwardly.

"I-I don't speak french. No parle pa, uh, Frenchais." 

Tension bleeds out of Roger and finally, he settles for a little smirk, daring Brian to speak in more broken French, which Brian then stubbornly refuses to do.

"Ann was the last housekeeper, did she, hire you?" He presents Roger his open palm and then pretends to have two fingers 'moonwalking' away. Hoping Roger would understand the gesture for 'walking away'. "Did she, leave?" 

"Ann?" Roger asks. Brian nods eagerly. Roger hums. "Ann _retired a couple of months ago. She can't make the drive up in the mountains every day and do so much of the cleaning. Not anymore with her age._ " Roger sees the vacant look in his eyes and thinks a little harder on how to tell Brian what exactly happened to Ann. 

" _Old_." He repeats in several french synonyms. "Ancien, vieux, âgé?" He then bends forward and mimes walking around with a hunched back and the feather duster as a cane. " _She was too old._ " 

Suddenly it clicks. "Old!" Brian exclaims. "She retired?" 

Roger smiles and points at himself. "Nouveau gouvernant la maison. Ann à la retraite."

"Right." 

After the most hectic game of charades in his life, Roger excuses himself to finish dusting off the kitchen, while Brian remains nailed to the welcome mat trying to digest what the fuck had just happened and how France is hiding literal angels living in the outskirts of their country, as if this is completely normal.

It becomes clear to him that Ann is indeed retired. He makes a call to her from his office to check up on her, she confirms that Roger is indeed the new housekeeper of the farmhouse and that Ann had sent him a letter about the matter months ago, which had never arrived. He has to assume it got lost in the mail. She wasn't big on phone calls and didn't want to stay on longer than it took to apologize for the confusion and wish him a merry Christmas.

Apparently, Roger has been looking after the place since early September, which explains why it is looking so pristine and undecayed compared to the summer months Brian had spent here. 

He wanders into the master bedroom and after pulling the cord to turn on the lights, sees that the room is filled with clothes and knick-knacks that are definitely not his. 

Brian comes to realize Roger had been staying here, just like Ann used to do while Brian was away, to look after the house in his absence, keep the pipes from freezing up in the winter and all the plants from dying. He does not want to kick Roger out just because he had decided to come unannounced and give him no time to prepare for other accommodation. 

He decides to camp out in the guest bedroom instead and is already unpacking when he hears rustling in the master bedroom across the hall.

Without a clue on what he is going to say and how he is going to convey the message in a language he doesn't know, he takes a deep breath and walks straight for the bedroom. The wooden door is left slightly open, but Brian knocks anyway to announce his presence.

"Hey, Roger."

Roger is standing by the bed and shoots him an easy smile when he sees Brian standing in the doorway. "Hi."

He takes this as an invitation to come inside. Only when he enters the room completely he realizes that Roger is packing his duffel bag on the bed.

The room has never looked bleak before, or particularly empty, but with Roger having stripped it of all his belongings and even changed the sheets, the red decor and dark wooden furniture don't seem to fill up the space adequately enough. 

Feeling like the greatest jackass on earth for chasing Roger out of the house without notice, Brian crosses the room shaking his head vigorously. 

"No, no, you can stay, you should stay." Without thinking he grasps for Roger's bag and tilts it upside down and empties the contents on the bed. As soon as he's done it, and it sinks in what he is doing and how terribly incredibly rude it is, he feels absolutely mortified and puts his hand over his face to hide the redness that is sure to be on display on his cheeks. "You don't know what I'm saying."

But Roger isn't rushing to pack his things or cursing at Brian in terrifying French gibberish, hell, he doesn't even so much as move an inch until a couple of moments later he bumps his shoulder into Brian's with an easy smile. 

That smile does things to Brian, as soon as he dares to lower his hands from his face, it makes him hot all over knowing Roger has been sleeping in his bed for the past couple of months. 

" _The homeowner is back, then housekeeper can sleep back at home. I will be back in the morning, no worries._ " Roger says, without pausing or using gestures to clarify his words. He starts to bunch his clothes back into his bag, completely unbothered. Brian tries not to let his eyes linger on the lacy underwear he sees amongst other items. " _My family lives in town, I will sleep there_." 

"Fuck. I don't know what you're saying... Stay." Brian takes a deep breath and tries for more charades. "Okay." He points at the bed. And then at Roger. "You, stay, here." Then he motions to himself. "Me, go to guest room. Bed," He points at the bed again, nodding convincingly. "Yours. Yes?" 

" _Are you asking me to sleep with you_?"

Roger chuckles a little fuller at Brians confused frown. "Sexe?" 

"No!" Brian shrieks. "Oh God no. No, I didn't. No." Roger laughs even harder seeing Brian bristle in embarrassment. "I was not suggesting that at all! I'm not a creep, I swear."

" _Make up your mind then, mister May._ " He winks and finishes packing up his bag without allowing further.

"I am really, really, terribly sorry. I did not mean to—"

" _For the love of God stop with your gibberish. You can drive me home._ " Roger slings his bag over his shoulder and mimes sitting behind the wheel in a car, then he gestures at Brian. "Car, tu?"

"Yes!" Brian clumsily grasps for his car keys in his back pocket and presents them to Roger. "I can drive you. Uh, thank you, and sorry."

Roger doesn't bother staying for the last bit and already starts moving out of the room without checking if Brian is following him. He doesn't have to, Brian is right behind him on his way out the door. "Where to?"

"Aydie." Roger answers after a long pause which suggests it wasn't a response to Brian as much as it was an announcement of his own. 

It is a little over a half an hour drive, nothing Brian can't handle.

They settle into the car in silence. Neither of them can bother struggling with the strains behind the language barrier, the silence is comfortable and filled with the silent murmur of the poor radio signal in the countryside. Roger likes to look out the window and only has to explain once what the words are for 'left' and 'right' in French so they can drive into his town.

It is one of the smallest places in France and incredibly charming. Rogers' house is flooded with light and the sound of life inside. 

Suddenly Brian feels stupid for even thinking someone like Roger would be a miserable fuck like him, being alone and loveless. 

"I see you tomorrow, right?" Brian asks in a grimmer tone.

" _Are you always this dramatic_?" Roger slings the car door open and offers Brian another smile. " _I will be there in the morning, goodbye mister May._ "

Brian waits until Roger has his key in the front door, until he turns the engine back on and starts riding around the block to drive back to the farmhouse alone, where it is empty and the bed is cold. 

When he wakes up he is obviously not by himself, with the light flooding in from under the door slid and soft humming coming from down the hall.

Roger is back first thing in the morning and a steaming cup of coffee is already waiting for Brian in his office when he comes crawling out from under the duvet to start writing on his book. He sits down at his desk and pulls the typewriter towards himself.

His fingers float over the keytops for a long moment, he thinks about the fist paragraphs and what he wants to say and how he wants to start. Brian shuts his eyes and listens to the creaking of wood and shuffling noises behind him. He had left the door open to hear Roger move about the house. The sounds proof inspirational enough for him to start typing out the first words.

**Five and a half weeks before Christmas**

Brian had come to the French countryside to get away from people and distractions. Hell, he had bought the bloody place for that exact purpose. Escape from the city pollution, constant noise, dark clouds and on this particular occasion, Tim. To give him the peace of mind to get some writing done.

And while having a french angel in denim dungarees and tousled hair working and bending around the house certainly is very distracting, he can't find himself to mind Roger's presence in the slightest.

He likes to whistle during his work, or hum a little tune while he fixes a leaky faucet or changes a light bulb on the dinner table.

Brian finds him like that one morning, with one knee on the table and flexing his back to change the light. 

He stops halfway into the room and finds that Roger had left him a fresh steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen counter as well as a couple of biscuits. Ann used to make him drinks too on an odd location, but it isn't part of the housekeeping job, officially. Neither is Roger going to local markets on his bicycle to buy fresh vegetables and fruits, sometimes baked goods. Or him folding Brian's underwear the way he secretly likes. 

"Good morning— eh Bonjour, Roger."

"Bonjour Monsieur," Roger looks up to smile distractingly, before going back to his task as if Brian isn't there at all.

Brian had meant to put his old mug in the sink and go straight back to writing and force himself out of his gradually developing writer's block, but for some reason he finds the process of Roger screwing a bulb into the lamp profoundly fascinating. "You can call me Brian, you know. We are the same age after all."

Roger sends him a blank look, attesting that he hadn't understood a thing Brian had just said.

Charades will be the death of him.

Brian points at his chest and then at Roger's mouth. He hopes this doesn't come across as suggestive again, because he will be dragged to court for harassment by the end of the winter at this rate. "You, tu, call me, Brian."

Roger points at him. "Brian."

"Yes! Yes, you can call me by my name, Brian." He shakes his head firmly. "No monsieur."

" _I get it, no sir, just Brian._ " A small smile curls up the corners of his lips. " _I will remember that, although it was a little hot calling you sir whenever I wanted._ " 

Is it the French language or does everything Roger says sounds mildly seductive? 

"Right." Brian takes the fresh cup of coffee and the small dish with biscuits and inches towards the door. "I will let you go back to work now. Sorry to disturb you."

" _Coffee is no good, I will bring you some tea later, to get your creative juices flowing. I won't have you use me as an excuse why you're not writing._ " Brian has not a clue what Roger just said, but he is smirking and looking very pleased with himself as he shoos Brian out of the kitchen.

Somehow, he ends up with a cup of tea ten minutes later and another one every couple of hours. Upon the third cup, close to four in the afternoon, he offers to drive Roger home again. 

There is something very alluring to Roger's smile and something very satisfying to being the reason why that smile bedazzles his perfect face. 

" _Are we making a tradition here_?" He asks. Brian understands only one word in that sentence, which is tradition.

"Yes! Yes we can certainly, certainly make it our tradition to do this together, yes. I like to stretch my legs for a bit at the end of the day, get out of the house." He babbles and knocks his knees on the top of his desk in his haste to get up. At least the extreme humiliation makes Roger laugh heartily. 

So they cramp into the vintage car moments later and drive through the hills, mountains and grass fields with the radio blasting soft tunes. Brian tries to steal glances at Roger, who is clutching the door handle and staring out the window to watch the scenery go by in peace. 

On their way into Aydie, Roger changes the music station without asking, he smirks when Brian raises his eyebrows.

" _If you got a problem, tell me in French or I won't understand you._ "

"I don't know what you're saying," Brian replies in the same cautious but slightly airy tone. "But I have a good taste in music, you know."

" _Your music taste is almost as poor as your driving._ "

**Five weeks before Christmas**

The driving Roger to home by the end of the day does become a tradition. 

Brian looks forward to it every day as much as he dreads it for the house is eerily quiet when Roger is not there. 

To distract himself from the pain and loneliness, Brian tries to write when he can. He often tries to find a spot where he can hear Roger work in the house, or on some particularly lucky days where he can see Roger working. Usually, if Brian wanders into a room where Roger is cleaning or repairing something, Roger will politely put his work down and give Brian some space to write in peace. The only time he really gets to see Roger work is when he is in the garden. 

The large windows in the office give him a perfect view of his extensive garden. In the winter the garlic, onion, pea plants, carrots and spring onions all grow outdoors during the winter.

Roger tends to the crops with the utmost care and professionalism. 

He looks out on Roger working through the window. He sees his slender figure bend and his muscles flex under his clothes. Brian should be more ashamed every time Roger catches him staring at his backside. In response, Roger gets up, does something universally embarrassing to him, like winking or sticking his tongue out while he waves back with dirty gloves.

Brian is a little less mortified every time and forces himself to not look away when Roger catches him staring.

" _Sly dog!_ " Roger calls through the glass. Laughing when Brian groans and drops his head onto his desk. 

"Please don't think I'm a perv."

**One month before Christmas**

Living alone is, lonely. 

Roger bikes to the nearest post office several kilometres away to deliver Brian his parcels even when Brian insists in driving. Brian gets letters from his mum and a few from his friends that help with the loneliness, which he reads during the night in front of the fire after he drives Roger home and he is left all alone. 

Freddie is awfully concerned about him and offered to come and stay with him. Brian's mind instantly goes to Freddie meeting Roger, Freddie who is incredibly charming and speaks immaculate French and imagines them instantly hit it off. So he sends him a letter back that there is absolutely no reason at all for him to come and that he is fine.

John's sends a letter in confirmation that he has escorted Tim and all his belongings successfully out of the flat. He sends Brian his best wishes and how sorry he is. How worried he is. And that he hopes the book is getting along well. 

So Brian sends them all reassurances and thank you's back, to focus on life in Marciac. 

With only one distraction left in his life, the book does happen to come along slowly. 

Roger brings him a cup of tea every two or three hours and sometimes he will sit on the edge of the desk to drink his own cup and warm up a little. 

Brian talks about his book just to fill the silence. He talks to Roger about what decisions to make and soon they come up with a system of 'option 1' or 'option 2'. 

"Un ou deux?"

Roger just holds up the number with his fingers and considers the decision made based on absolutely nothing. Brian finds it freeing. 

"I need a name for this sleazy bastard who cheats on his boyfriend of five years. I can't quite come up with a name. It can't be too obvious, of course. Can't just call him Tom. What do you think? One, un for Oliver, two, deux for Nigel?" 

Roger lowers his cup to assess the two options carefully. He recognizes them as names and asks, " _Is this for the good guy or for the bad guys_?" Brian doesn't understand what he's saying, so he huffs and tries to find the words. "Eh... Good? Ou... Mal? Bad guy?"

"Well, not bad at first, not evil, just, fucking heartless... Thoughtless. He doesn't know what he is doing to the person he betrays or the consequences of his actions. I would know, he is not evil. He could never be. I guess he just, he just didn't love me. Not the way that I loved him."

"Love?" Roger asks with his thick hypnotizing accent. "Est love? L'amour?... _Brian? Oh God, what happened? Why are you crying_?"

Brian hadn't even noticed he had started crying, but now that the gates have flooded, he can't seem to stop. Images of Damien on top of Tim in the bed, in their bed, the bed they have been sleeping in together every night for five years, touching each other and whispering with familiarity. Heart crushing and dream souring memories of touches that have burned into Brian's eyelids and he is forced to stare at every time he shuts his eyes. 

He realizes that he hadn't cried since he had found Tim in bed with Damien. He hadn't allowed himself to dwell on the deep-rooted sense of betrayal. His longterm boyfriend and his best friend. 

He tried to contain his feelings in his writing, lock it away in a book and make a bunch of money from it to capitalise off his own pain. 

His crying turns into dry heaves and he curls forward in an effort to hide his crumbled state from a very perplexed Roger. 

It occurs to him that his heart is broken. Truly shattered and torn from between his ribs. He had never wanted to imagine a future without Tim, let alone one where he becomes the villain of the story. It is unnerving to realize he and Tim had been completely different wavelengths within their relationship. Brian had been waiting anxiously for gay marriage to be legalized so he could use the ring he had been eyeing for Tim. While Tim had been rolling around in bed with Damien. Damien who would come around to fix Tim's car, or the heater, or the kettle. Things Brian said John could repair much better, but Tim always favoured Damien's help.

The thought brings sick to his throat. 

"It's not fair." Brian sobs. "I can't believe they would do that."

" _Oh I wish I knew what to say— I wish I knew what you were saying. I'm very sorry, such a wonderful man, there's no need to cry... Here._ " Roger quickly puts the teacup down and pushes Brians chin up and holds his face between his hands. He wipes away the tears from the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. " _Look. You're beautiful. Why would you cry._ " He sighs.

Brian tries to stop crying, but this had struck a chord in him. Maybe he shouldn't write about betrayal at all. Nobody wants to read him being a miserable fuck. 

He sniffles. "I'm sorry. I'm such a mess right now. He broke my heart."

Roger is very surprised at his emotional outburst but he continues to hold onto his face with a gentle cradling quality.

There is no way for him to know what Brian is feeling and no way for Brian to communicate it to him, but something about the serenity and sympathy in Roger's eyes tells that Brian's heartbreak had translated across the language barrier.

" _You can't write like this, you will get tears all over your pages, here._ "

Roger gets up and pushes Brian to his feet with more force than Brian would think he could produce with those skinny arms. 

He leads Brian into the living room and sits him down in front of the television. He turns it on and hands Brian the remote. Wordlessly he leaves the room to fetch some things in the other rooms. Brian can hear him move about and across the room.

Roger returns moments later with a blanket, which he wraps around Brian's shoulders. He then hands Brian a cup of tea. Without pausing or sitting down, Roger rubs his shoulder and murmurs something in French that Brian doesn't catch over the humming of the television. 

Brian warms his hands around the steaming cup and leans into Roger's touch with childlike affection. 

" _You cannot write any more today._ " Roger says in a disapproving tone. Brian stares up at him and Roger huffs. "Brian, non— d'écriture." He holds out his hands in front of his chest and pretends to type on an invisible keyboard. He then shakes his head. "Non. Est-ce clair?"

Brian knows he is being forced to stop working for the day so he can collect himself.

Before taking his leave, Roger makes sure the blanket is pulled tight around Brian's shoulders and his tears are gently wiped away. 

" _Stay_. Okay?"

Brian can't say this didn't warm his heart, even a little. 

"Okay."

" _Good, you stay here. I will be back soon. Stay._ "

Daytime television is shit and Brian still can't speak French, which means he doesn't understand a word of the Paris based sitcoms. He finishes his tea and starts to feel a little better a couple of hours later. 

When Roger is in the garden and sufficiently distracted, he tries to sneak back into his office to do some secret writing. Just before he sits down behind his desk he finds a post-it stuck to his typewriter written in Roger's handwriting. 

_Non!_

**One month before Christmas**

Things go back to normal which includes Roger in the new sense of normalcy, although he is a lot more careful around Brian now, as if he is something fragile. Not that he can be to blame. His little outburst had been nothing but abrupt and strange from Roger's perspective. 

All in all, Brian doesn't think he minds it too much. The dotting and care is something he hadn't realized he had lacked so much in his relationship with Tim.

Roger checks up on him a little more frequently now. Wanders into his office, puts a hand on Brian's shoulder, says some french nonsense and leaves, sometimes to come back with a biscuit and some tea later. Other times just to check up on him again.

Brian starts to feel a little unease that their relationship seems a little one-sided in effort. He doesn't like it when the guilt sets in each time Roger does things for him in-between already doing his job especially well. 

He tries to think of something he can do for Roger in return. 

It only takes a couple of days of observing Roger thoroughly (for this purpose only, of course), he figures out that Roger is a horrendous cook. It occurs to him that although Roger brings him fresh pastries from the local bakery at the nearest town and storebought biscuits, he's never actually cooked a meal.

So Brian decides to start making him his lunches at around noon after witnessing on three separate occasions, Roger getting through the day on only a bucket of tea and one apple, which is unacceptable considering how physical his work is.

Brian is a good cook and an even better baker.

He makes Roger a grocery list (which have little drawn doodles of picturing the food next to the English words) and from the food Roger brings back from town Brian makes them lunch. 

He makes his own croissants and fruit salads to feed Roger something small every day.

The first time he leads Roger into the kitchen for their lunch is actually the first time Brian has caused Roger to blush.

But around the fourth time they've done this in a row, it becomes another part of their ordinary routine. Brian sets the table and makes their lunch from scratch. It is probably the most wholesome and cliche thing to do while living in the French countryside, with the fire crackling in the hearth and the swans honking and fluttering their wings outside over the lake. Brian rolls the dough beneath his palms and shuts his eyes, feeling the think gooey texture between his fingers and realizing this is exactly what he came here for. A quiet serenity unfound anywhere within the proximity of London. 

After the croissants are in the oven and he has sprinkled sugar over their strawberries, Brian opens the kitchen window and calls for Roger to come inside.

The domestic familiarity sets his heart ablaze.

Roger strolls into the kitchen with a smudge of dirt on his cheek and a radiant smile that puts the sun to shame. He inhales sharply and says something Brian doesn't understand, but he pinches his thumb to his index finger and kisses it, a universal way of complimenting the smell coming from the cooling croissants on the counter. 

Brian blushes furiously and rubs his palms on his apron before he can plate their croissants and fruit. 

Roger is already sitting at the kitchen table when Brian arrives with their plates and the kettle to pour them some tea. Two intensely blue eyes observe him make their tea and Brian forces himself not to spill anything. 

" _You are a proper housewife, you know._ " Roger says contently after dragging his cup towards himself. 

"I hope you don't think I am a total sissy."

" _You do look nice in an apron. It is rather nice for a change, you sweating for me. Not the other way around_." Roger winks as Brian sits down opposite to him and raises his own cup in salutation. 

"Sometimes I wish I knew what you were saying, but your accent sends all my blood down south and I can't say I would do any better if I knew what you actually meant."

"Monsieur May," Something about the way Roger flutters his eyelashes makes Brian cross his legs in panic. " _You're blushing_."

"In moments like these I'm awfully happy you don't understand a word I'm saying. That would be incredibly embarrassing."

" _Red like a lobster. Naughty_." Roger chuckles before he starts digging into his food. Moaning obscenely on every bite.

**Three weeks before Christmas**

They never butt heads, but it is obvious that they are completely different human beings, having very different conversations at the same place at the same time. For some odd, perhaps self-destructive reason, Brian finds it incredibly refreshing. 

Nothing about Roger is confrontational or uncomfortable. While having their lunches or car drive to Roger's home, they will play games of charades throughout the day to get through short moments of necessary interaction but give up on all comprehensive form of communication if it is not absolutely necessary. 

The refreshing thing is that Roger and himself mostly communicate through acts of service, tone of voice, long meaningful eye contact and lingering touches. 

Words, Brian finds out, are extremely overrated. Somehow this translates into his book, where he is 87 pages through, but not a single line of dialogue has been said. 

Brian probably once would have told anyone that one cannot fall in love with someone they cannot communicate with, not realizing that words were probably the least important sort of communication. Especially hard to grasp being a writer. 

So they click. Maybe they shouldn't and perhaps they wouldn't if they knew the meaning of what they were both saying to each other, but that is not the case. 

Somehow this works better than any relationship Brian remembers ever being in. 

He has the awful habit of leaving his things scattered around the house and losing them. He sometimes grows so desperate that he tries to get Roger in on the hunt. On a particular occasion when he had wanted to go into town to get some stamps for a letter to his mum, assuring her that he will be home for Christmas, he lost one of his shoes.

It doesn't take long for Roger to catch on the problem.

Brian holds up his shoe, and shrugs with the empty hand. "I lost my other shoe. I swear, I don't know where I put it."

" _You're an imbecile._ " Roger huffs, already turning on his heel to starting looking. 

"Hey! I understood that..." 

After half an hour of being bend by their waists trying to search the floors for Brian's missing footwear, their backs are sufficiently sore and Roger finds it shoved under the bed. He retrieves it with his lips pressed into a thin line, but there is a twinkle in his eyes that gives away that he hadn't minded the search so much.

Brian holds out his hand for the shoe with a sigh of relief. "I don't know how you put up with me."

" _You are lucky you are cute_." Roger snorts, tossing him the shoe. 

The only time when Roger shows a more heated side of himself is when they're driving in the car, to his home. 99% of the time Brian doesn't know what he is saying, but he can tell the tone changes when Brian drives through the mountain passes where the road gets narrow and the railings down ravines get lower. People used to complain that Brian is a bad driver, but after driving here every summer for years, he thinks he's become quite accustomed to the roads.

The other possibility is that, perhaps Roger dreads parting from him by the end of the day as much as Brian does. 

Although Roger is going home to his family and friends. Brian will be left with an empty house.

That does not explain the cursing, though. 

" _You are a terrible driver_ " Roger clutches the handle above the passenger door and glares at Brian. " _And I will die in this car_."

"You know it isn't so different to switch from the left lanes in England to the right lanes here in France. I ease into it early on." Brian says conversationally, but Roger is already cursing profoundly until they are in Aydie and the roads become a little easier and he can go back to fondly mocking Brian's preferred radio station in French.

**Two weeks before Christmas**

Working without dialogue in the new book becomes less challenging as the story progresses. Not unlike himself, the main character is mostly stuck in his own head with the company of his own troubling mind. His interactions with the world are significant, yes, ut worlds couldn't describe the turmoil inside as he banes his way through the rockiest period he can remember.

For a change, Brian is working outside by the wooden deck looking out onto the small lake behind the house. 

He had a desk built on the stretched out deck so he could have a nice spot to write during the warm summer days. Granted, it is anything but warm now, but the beanie he is wearing, sweater, coat and gloves keep him warm long enough to enjoy the fresh air while he writes. 

Roger is keeping an eye out, obviously worried Brian is going to catch a cold, sitting still in the freezing climate. 

Roger comes to change his teacup for a new one that's still steaming. Brian had been using the empty cup to keep the pages he had written up from being blown away by the wind. He isn't paying attention when Roger comes to collect it, too engrossed in his absolutely ground-breaking sex scene, when a loud gasp followed by the rustling of a hundred papers fly through the air.

" _Oh fuck. Oh Fuck!_ " Roger puts the teacup down with a clatter and desperately starts to run after the papers caught in the wind. " _The book! Oh my God_." 

For a long pause, Brian doesn't understand what is happening, until he sees Roger chasing the scattering papers with fierce determination and panic.

"Oh God," Brian swallows. "That's half the book."

The numb shock of surprise takes a little while to recover. When he finally pushes himself up to continue to shout at Roger. Things he wouldn't understand anyway. 

"Roger, you will catch a cold, better to leave them. It's not— it isn't worth it. Roger!"

He doesn't as much as pause, of course. 

"Stop! You can— It's all rubbish anyway. Fuck, you're not trying to listen." Brian rubs his temples, but then swallows thickly as Roger reaches the end of the wooden deck. "What are you doing?" 

His mouth goes dry when Roger starts to peel the layers of cold protective clothing from his body to catch the papers flying right for the lake. Brian is rooted to his spot behind his desk and all efforts to try and stop Roger from— stripping down to his panties and diving into the deep to retrieve the papers floating in the water before they are completely soaked by the dirty lake water, stop at once. 

Roger jumps in like a cannonball and swims upwards to shriek from the cold.

All craziness aside, Roger does not fuck around.

Another one of Roger's high pitched shrieks forces him out of the initial shock.

Brian curses some more and runs right after him, without having the mind (or confidence) to get nude. "Oh God he's in. And now I have to jump in or I will look like a complete moron."

He is out of breath by the time he has crossed the creaking wooden deck and without looking back, thinking twice, doubting the sanity of this, he leaps in. 

Immediately he is swallowed by intense, skin pinching cold that punches a cry out of his lungs too. 

Roger got hit by the splash from his dive and makes another loud noise of disapproval. 

" _It's so cold_!"

"Jesus! This was," Roger hands him a handful of watersoaked pages. Brian is closer to the deck and obediently puts them on the dry shore. "This was your idea."

Roger is already busy trying to grab more, reaching between the reed and mud to grab a few stray ones that had gotten off course. His teeth are already clattering and his lips are a concerning state of purple. " _I am freezing my fucking balls off._ " He says in French, before handing Brian more of the ruined book. 

The weight of his clothes is trying to drag him down, luckily it is a rather shallow lake and he's half sure he could stand on the tips of his toes without having to swim. Roger is a lot shorter than him. And a lot more nude. Brian appreciates his swimming form for another moment, watching him swim forward on his belly, and his soaked underwear clings around him. 

He doesn't know what Roger is saying when he returns with another batch of pages, but it is clear that he is freezing to death. 

" _These pages better be worth it. Jesus Christ_."

"They're hardly worth the hassle, Roger. Rog." Brian swims towards him and grabs one of his wrists. Finally, Roger stops. He looks at where Brian is clasping him tight and as if burned, Brian lets go somewhat sheepishly. "I- it isn't worth it." He repeats. "No, it's alright."

" _What kind of idiot doesn't make copies_." Roger laughs and breaks the tension when he climbs onto Brian to duck him under the cold water. " _You utter fool!_ "

They don't end up playing in the water for long. Admittedly, Roger had saved most of the books in a matter of minutes, which is a relief even if Brian wouldn't have blamed Roger if it had gotten lost in the accident. 

Apparently, Roger is some sort of genius in the department of saving paper from water damage. They put a paper towel underneath and on top of each individual paper and then let it dry in direct sunlight, using paperweights to keep the pages from curling at the corners. Roger instructs him that tonight he should change the towels, bring the papers inside and let a fan dry it the rest of the way overnight. 

After this slow and tedious project, Brian finds Roger a fluffy towel and some dry underwear. Roger is waiting in the master bedroom, looking suspiciously in place. 

Brian lingers in the doorway to admire the sight before him for just last one moment. 

Roger has surprisingly long legs when he is near-nude. The black lace brings out the colour of his eyes and his hair pop in stark, but beautiful contrast. Roger is nearly nude, leaning against his bed, eyes twinkling when he catches Brian standing there. He knows that this picture will be branded in his mind forever. 

He grins and takes the underwear as well as the sweater that Brian had intended to wear himself. Roger holds the article to his nose and inhales deeply, smile softening. 

" _It smells like you._ "

"I hope it doesn't stink, didn't exactly think you'd take it..." Brian looks at the two mugs on the bedside table, identifying the sweet aroma immediately. "You made hot chocolate."

Roger catches him looking and nods knowingly, before taking a step back so he can undress behind Brian. Strip out of his wet underwear and get into Brian's briefs and sweater. Brian uses all of his willpower to not turn around and take a peak, instead he reaches for one of the mugs and sits down on the bed, waiting for Roger to do the same and sit down beside him.

He knocks his mug into Brian's, as if they were toasting and scoots entirely too close to Brian when he sits down on the wobbly mattress. " _Hot chocolate is only expertise in the kitchen, besides the tea, of course_." 

The drink is incredibly good, sweet and rich, much thicker than the runny chocolate soup they call hot chocolate in England. 

Brian is content sipping his hot chocolate in silence, listening to Roger breathing, slurping and feeling him lean against his shoulder progressively more as the time passes on. 

Eventually, he breaks the silence, but only when their mugs are nearly empty. There hangs a sadness in the air. The skies have been cloudy all week and the songs Roger hums are all Christmas tunes now. Brian used to love Christmas, before it meant leaving Roger in France and him going back to cold and lonely England, lonely for all the different ways that he is lonely here. 

Roger puts his mug down and nudges Brian to get him to look at him. 

"Pages... Livre—" He cradles an invisible book in his lap. "Eh, quel genre?" 

"The genre of the book?... Well," Brian feels a little shy, suddenly. He knows his previous books have been translated to French, but he doesn't know if Roger is a big fiction reader, or if he would know Brian is a famous author at all. "It is a heartbreak story, really, meant to be romantic." 

"Romantique?" Roger asks with a tiny smirk that dissolves as soon as Brian forms a heart over his chest and then separates the two sides in a breaking motion. 

"Ouch, sad story. Basically."

Narrowing his eyes, Roger leans in closer to peer up at him suspiciously. " _It is about you, isn't it_?" He asks. Brian doesn't understand a single word and it makes him a little blue, in ways it hadn't before. " _I don't like sad stories._ "

Quickly dismissing the meaningful look Roger is trying to give him, Brian averts his eyes to their bare feet. 

"It wouldn't be something you would want to read."

There is a long pause. There is no way Roger could have known what he meant with the words, but he catches on the non-verbal communication and takes his cue to leave. 

" _I should go back to work._ " Roger points over his shoulder at the door. He grabs Brian's mug without allowing their fingers to brush and has the same underlying bittersweetness in his eyes that has been plaguing Brian in his last week here. 

Before he leaves the room, Roger pauses and turns back around. 

" _Will you drive me home, after_?" He pretends to steer a car wheel and then motions at Brian. An uncharacteristic uncertain hopefulness displayed in his widened eyes. 

Finally understanding what he is saying, Brian straightens up and nods eagerly. "Yes, yes, I'll drive you home. It's—" He exhales. Looking straight at Roger and pouring every bit of truth into his words. "It's my favourite time of day, driving you." 

" _It is the saddest part of my day_ ," Roger replies in a French murmur. " _Leaving you_."

**One week before Christmas**

This was possibly the fastest week in Brian's memory and before he knows it, he and Roger are driving done to Aydie for the last time this winter. 

During the drive down the grass valleys and mountains, a thick lump swells inside his throat. Neither of them says anything and something in Roger's energy lacks his usual sunshine. Neither of them says a word. Even the radio is turned down into an unintelligible murmur.

A cloud hangs over their heads but the skies outside are tauntingly clear when Brian with great reluctance brings the car to a steadfast halt.

For one moment neither of them makes the first move. 

All the days before in the last month, Roger would fly the car door open and say a brief French reassurance, before disappearing into his house. Today, it is Brian who cannot stop clutching the steering wheel, even when he turns sideways at Roger and forces the words through the narrow passage in his throat. 

"I think, this is goodbye."

Roger's eyes remain fixed on Brian and his body, knees, chest and face are all turned towards him. 

" _I will miss you._ " He exhales throatily. " _I will miss the sound of your very slow typing._ " Roger chuckles, a wet and emotional sound. Brian only catches on what he is saying when he starts typing on an invisible keyboard and then a steering wheel. " _And your terrible driving_." 

Brian blinks the tears away as soon as they start to swell in his eyes. Hoping Roger hadn't noticed.

Again his brain fails to supply him with something to say, anything to convey what had grown so fondly around his heart. He cannot say it. He cannot even move bis facial muscles. 

It is once more Roger who gathers the courage and speaks up. 

" _You are an idiot, because you had weeks to do this and you didn't._ " 

Brian holds his breath as Roger shuts his eyes, he leans across and closes the space between them to briefly, passionately press his lips against Brian's. 

A burst of sweetness and heat breaks free where their bodies touch. Brian shuts his eyes and leans into Roger's lips, to savour and remember the softness of his touch and the shape of his body against his. 

Just as Bian starts to melt in surrender, Roger pulls back with a gasp of air and pained exhale. 

Brian opens his mouth to say something, anything, to keep Roger from getting up and leaving, but before Brian can form any sentence, coherent, incoherent, french or not, Roger has grabbed his bag and slammed the car door shut. 

Brian doesn't go after him. 

He doesn't have the words.

**Six days before Christmas**

Freddie comes around with groceries and to help him settle in as soon as Brian arrives at his and Tims old flat. 

All traces of Tim and life, in general, have been removed. Probably John, when he had escorted Tim out of the house. The majority of pictures that were there have been removed. Half the closet and bathroom storage space is empty. John had gone as far as buy new sheets and pillows, apparently having trashed or donated the duvets he had shared with Tim for so long.

At least Freddie comes around with an envelope of freshly printed pictures of them, his mum, his old pets and other pictures to replace the void that Tim had left behind.

"How was France?" Freddie asks with deliberate causality while he puts the pictures in the frames. 

Brian is putting his clothes in the washing machine for a round of washing. He replies without turning around, keeping his voice low and neutral. "It was alright."

"It usually does you more good when you are gone for a while." Freddie pauses, then he sighs. "Are you really still sulking over Tim and Damien? Come on Bri, you are a gorgeous, brilliant, hot and wealthy man in the prime of your life. Let them go. There will be better friends and better boyfriends."

Brian straightens his back as soon as the machine is on and whirling. He frowns at Freddie, a little confused. "What? Who— no. Oh no, that's not what I'm sad about."

"Then what— what animal have they declared endangered?"

"The mountain gorilla, but that's not the point." Brian stalks over to him and flops down on the couch beside him. Freddie puts the pictures to the side to open his arm for Brian to lean against him. The familiarity is comforting and in his moment of weakness, the words come spilling out without his permission. "I think I fell in love with my housekeeper, in France."

"Old Ann?!"

"No!" Brian groans. "No, no she retired."

Freddie is laughing, heartily and joyous. "But that is lovely, isn't it? I thought you'd be bound to mourning over bloody Tim for months, turns out you already have a crush on someone else. Splendid! Why are you being so dramatic?"

"Not a 'crush'." Brian throws an arm over his face (nearly hitting Freddie with it as well). 

He hates to admit it. It isn't like him to be so ridiculous, but Freddie is a truth extractor. And because Brian couldn't even confess to Roger what he was feeling. Leaving his feelings tight and overflown around his heart.

"Truth is, actually... I'm in love."

It takes a second for Freddie to do the maths in his head, but he eventually states in the form of a question, "Five weeks? Love?"

"...And he can't even speak a word English."

"But how— how did you two talk to each other?" Freddie nudges his shoulder to make him lower his arm and actually make eye contact with him. "Bri... How did you talk to him?"

"We just, gestured, I suppose. We looked at each other and we just understood what the other felt. If that's not too corny?"

Brian knows that it is extremely corny from the way Freddie has to bite his lip to keep himself from bursting out into a teasing grin. 

Brian smacks him on the arm. "It's not funny."

"It's a little funny." 

"Not it's not!" But Freddie's ringing laughter is infectious and thrilling with a jingle of approval. Brian leans into him further and hides his face into his shoulder. "How could I fall for a fucking Frenchman?"

"Not a bad exchange for cheating bastard, right?" Freddie grins and wraps his arms around him tightly to trap him in a hug. 

Later that night, Freddie leaves to return to his own flat a few blocks over, but with the promise to come back tomorrow and give some notes on Brian's first draft of his nearly finished book, as he always does when Brian needs a second opinion.

Despite that, Brian's flat feels empty and nothing like the home he has in France. The loneliness becomes almost suffocating until Freddie returns in the late afternoon with a bright smile and an abundance of energy to spare and fill up the void in the flat. 

"Darling, how are you? Still hung up on Roger? That's what I thought."

"Thanks, Fred." Brian snorts and opens the door wide for Freddie to enter. Freddie hands him the copy of the book he had borrowed with a glimmer in his eyes. "...Everything alright?"

"Yes, yes. I won't be staying long, I'm afraid I've got somewhere to be a little after four, and so do you."

The glimmer only intensifies and Brian squirms a little, still waiting for Freddie to step inside. 

"I don't understand what—"

"Read some of the notes I've left you. I think you could do great things with it." Freddie starts backing away. The smugness on his face cannot promise anything good. "I will see you on Thursday and we can go present shopping with John, okay?"

"Freddie, tell me what's going on."

"Read my notes and see you on Thursday, letting you know the details over the phone, okay?"

"Freddie!" Brian is on his bare feet and forced to give up when Freddie rounds the corner looking unbearably pleased with himself.

Cursing under his breath, Brian shuts the door with his hip and quickly walks back into the warm room to read what notes exactly Freddie is referring to. When he opens the first page, a piece of paper falls out from between the pages onto the floor. 

"What is..?"

Brian bends down to pick it up, the top reads: _Alliance Francaise De Londres: French courses for beginners. Applicant Brian May. First class appointment at 04:15 p.m. Address: 1 Dorset Square._

Written at the bottom of the acceptance letter is a scribbled message from Freddie: _va le chercher tiger — or go get him tiger_.

**Christmas Eve**

One cannot possibly learn a whole language in a matter of weeks, let alone days, but Brian really has made a lot of progress for someone who stumbled over the word 'Bonjour' five days ago. Brian studies French at every given opportunity. He attends the classes at the institute every day and walks around the streets of London, the tube, his flat and really anywhere with headphones on to repeat the French sentences playing on his educational cd, on the portable cd player strapped to his trousers. He even attends evening classes to get his French up to bar. 

When Christmas comes around and Freddie is there with a taxi to drive them over to Ruth and Harold's house where they celebrate the holiday with the extended family, he is certain that his mission to win over Roger's heart as soon as he's mastered his mother tongue, are closer than anyone could predict. 

This means that he is in a great mood when he swings the door open for Freddie and hands him a few of the many shopping bags filled to the brim with presents for his parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends. 

Freddie catches onto his mood instantly and brightens up. "Happy Christmas, Bri."

"Happy Christmas." He exhales before pushing out the door to wrap his arms around Freddie in a tight hug. "Been one hell of a year, but I am picking myself back up."

He has. He's back to being a full-time vegetarian and doing fifty pushups in his room every morning while he listens to his French cd. His book is damn near finished to send to his editor and he's got ideas for a sequel already. 

The improvements and pride display on his face like a neon sign, Freddie melts and says, "Votre français s'est-il amélioré?"

Brian draws blank. "Fuck."

"Don't worry," Freddie hastily pulls Brian out of the door to get him to the cab downstairs. Trying and failing to distract Brian from his epic fail. "You have been practising and that's what counts! Ready to celebrate some Christmas?"

As if dunked in a cold water bucket of reality, his mood suddenly plunges back to his darker mood a few days ago when he had also been aware that his French was somewhat nonexistent to mediocre. He really hadn't been in the holiday spirit. His mind feels heavy and his heart tugs deep at his core. While he sits in the cab and watches the city lights go by in a tangled starry mess of whites and reds, an uneasiness grows in his stomach, it doesn't sit right with him. 

He knows deep down that he isn't where he should be.

They arrive at his parents' house after a silent ride. Freddie is glancing over at him worriedly when they step out of the taxi and Brian doesn't know how to respond when he asks how he is doing.

Bad. He thinks. Bad because he can't speak French for shit, he will never learn how to speak French because it is a dreadfully complicated language with too many bloody apices, he is in a cold country with the snow seeping through his shows and Roger is not there to keep him warm with his smile.

A thousand thoughts are running through his head. He is already carrying the presents with Freddie towards the house. 

Before Brian's mind can settle, Freddie has already knocked on the door and his dear mother Ruth is standing there, wearing an elegant but modest dress, with an excited smile at seeing her son and the rest of the family, a good group of twenty, gathering behind her to greet them too.

"Brian, Freddie, darlings, how incredibly nice to have you here." She sighs earnestly and opens the door wide. "Come on in."

"Thank you, Mrs May. Quite cold outside. Happy Christmas." Freddie kisses her on the cheek and carries himself and some bags inside. Greeting Harold and John in the back and some of the cousins he remembers.

Unlike him, Brian is frozen to the doormat. Feeling his skin crawl unhappily. 

"Brian, darling?" Ruth further widens the gap in the door and gestures for him to step inside. "Are you coming?"

Something in her voice does help Brian take a step forward over the threshold but before he can even get a lick of warmth radiating from the house, he pauses and looks up. Sees his eight cousins and their spoiled children, his elderly relatives in their expensive clothes, holding alcoholic beverages, promising the same Christmas he's got every year. An abundance of drunkenness, gifts and people, all but the one thing he has got his mind focused on. 

Brian takes one more look around before he zeroes in on his confused mother. "Splendid," He says breathlessly. He is breathing very fast, filling his head with oxygen too quickly causing him to feel dazed. "It's lovely, so lovely to see you all... I need to go, actually."

"Brian darling, you just got here."

"Sorry." He tells his mother plainly "I— I made a big mistake."

He wordlessly hands her over the presents and turns on his heel without looking back even when he hears the entire party of people calling after him. His heart tugs him away.

Out on the streets, he flags down the first cab to drive by and asks for the fastest route to Gatwick airport.

**Christmas Eve**

Out of all the times, Brian has driven up to Roger's house, this time was certainly the most nerve-wracking. 

The cab stops in Aydie, in front of the tiny stand-alone house where Brian had watched Roger disappear through that very door every single day for five weeks straight. 

He pays the driver way too much money, but he cannot be bothered to figure out the Euro's and it is Christmas for Christs' sakes. The driver makes a loud noise of surprise, but Brian pays him no mind as he rushes his way out of the car, having packed no suitcase or bag, with nothing but his coat, keys and wallet, Brian stalks up to the Taylor residence, with a lump forming in his throat, threatening to choke him if he dares to utter a word of French.

Someone is home if Brian can believe the lights shining out the windows and the sound of laughter and glasses or dishes clattering inside. 

Before he loses whatever is left of his nerves, Brian takes a deep breath and raises his hand to knock on the little window in the door.

One moment later, a tiny woman with an elaborate grey hairdo and Roger's striking eyes, opens the door. 

She is understandably confused by his appearance and frowns suspiciously.

" _Yes_?"

"Eh..." Brian takes a step back from the door to give them both some breathing space. He fumbles with his fingers and looks down at them instead of falling into that woman's familiar curious gaze. " _You maybe hear about me, I, boss of Roger. Brian May._ "

The confusion instantly morphs into a knowing smile that reminds him too much of her son again. 

" _So you are Brian, huh. I was told you couldn't speak French._ "

He barely snips together what she is saying, feeling a tiny bit of pride swell in his chest for himself. " _I learn, for Roger. I mean to come France and ask for his hands, in marriage._. Or whatever the French equivalent is to a civil partnership."

" _I certainly do not speak English, mister May, but I see your intentions are pure— good._ " She smiles a little wider and then calls back into the house, " _Clare! Everyone! Come outside, Brian is here to put us out of our misery_!" She grabs her coat off the nearest hook and wraps herself up tight against the average cold. Her fondness is reassuring. The flood of people that suddenly come streaming into the hallway, is not. 

" _Roger has not shut up about you since you have left the farmhouse. Oh, that boy is miserable, which means we are miserable having to listen to all that moping._ " She steps outside and the entourage follows. Roger's mother hooks his elbow with hers and grins up at him. " _He is working tonight, a restaurant job, I will bring you to him now._ "

Feeling both dazed and overwhelmed, Brian allows her to drag him down into the heart of the town where he had never been before.

She is talking some more, sometimes to the people behind him and the girl version of Roger who has joined them at the front of this little parade. 

His mind is going a mile per minute. 

He'd hoped Roger was at home and that they could talk about this in private, in a quiet room where Brian could show off the French he had mastered for Roger or at the very least convey how he makes his heart sing with joy every time he so much as imagines a single detail of Roger's body and being.

The uneven medieval streets make it even harder to remain balanced as they walk straight towards the lights inside the densest part of town where the shops and restaurants are open and people are gathered around the patios, drinking their wines, enjoying their Christmas in groups.

Although the town is relatively small, somehow they have managed to pick up a large string of people following along towards the restaurant where Roger is supposedly working.

The announcing shouts go from, " _The wealthy Englishman is going to ask for Roger's hand in marriage_ " to " _Winifred is selling Roger as a slave to the Englishman_ " oh and " _He is going to kill Roger!_ " which somehow attracts even more people to topple out of their restaurant chairs and follow the growing crowd down into the heart of Aydie. Brian is too busy being mortified about the turnout than the things that are being shouted about him.

His face is burning hot when Roger's mother brings them to a halt in front of the unsuspecting restaurant. Brian has to unbutton his coat to breathe.

The small woman sends him a sympathetic smile. She doesn't have to say a word. She leans forward and pats him on the side of his arm. Her eyes ablaze with approval. 

"Alright." He nods in thanks, then he turns to the crowd and nods again. Feeling sick just from the sheer number of spectators. "Alright."

Somehow, someway, everything beyond the entrance of the tiny establishment disappears out of focus. 

Brian takes a deep breath and banes his way forward, stepping forward, out of the crowd and pushes his way through the doors. 

The people seated inside have started to notice something odd is going on and a confused murmur goes around the room as Brian steps inside and searches around for that familiar mop of blond hair or that smile with a magnetic force that it could move the sun out of its orbit.

He knows he is being followed by the crowd when he pushes his way inside in search of Roger. Slowly the small restaurant fills up almost immediately and as far as the eye could see from the inside, a mob had gathered around.

When Brian still can't see Roger amongst the waiters who have all paused serving their food and panic starts to rise in Brian's chest until Winifred kindly pulls the headwaiter aside. 

" _We are looking for Roger, where is he_?" 

The man, unlike the other waiters, is dressed in a black tailored suit that fits him tight around the belly. He doesn't seem too amused by the flood of people overwhelming the paying customers. " _And why should I tell you_?"

Winifred can hardly contain her joy when she says, " _The Englishman wants to marry him._ "

The man's eyes whip over to Brian and he frowns deeply. " _He can't do that. He is my best waiter._ "

" _Are you out of your mind_?!"

A verbal altercation is about to break out between the boss and Winifred, when the commotion suddenly summons a very confused, very tired and earth-shattering beautiful Roger comes pushing out of the break room, whisking his head towards the sudden burst of familiar intruders clogging up the door to the tiny restaurant. 

His eyes glide from his boss, to his mum and finally, they widen comedically as they settle on the man in centre and forefront. 

Brian steps forward. All the eyes in the room are in his. Roger's family, the whole town, the patrons and most importantly, the man he loves is frozen to the spot, slack faced and utterly baffled by the turn of events. He hasn't often seen Roger caught by surprise, or silenced even. He seizes the opportunity when he gets it. 

" _Good evening, Roger._ "

Something about his pronunciation must have been off. There is a round of giggles that goes around the room and Roger has to pinch his arm to keep himself from bursting out into a great smile. "Hi, Brian."

He is still standing across the restaurant, stiff with shock. Brian forces himself to inch closer, blinking hard. 

When he does get closer and they no longer have to shout to hear each other, he is surprised to hear Roger's first fully English spoken sentence come out of his mouth. 

"I thought you in England."

"Yeah, I was," Brian admits reluctantly. He takes another step closer. His hands are clammy and they shake dangerously. He forces himself to dig through his mind and exhaust every bit of French he has picked up from his hours listening tirelessly to the cd. All the spectators can think of his French whatever they want. He will try, for Roger. " _But... I realized I'd forgotten something here. In France._ "

"Which was?"

Suddenly they are nose to nose. And he can see the tiny specs of gold in Roger's beautiful sea shone eyes. " _Well, I realized that love, actually, never felt right until I met you_."

A smile curls the corners of Roger's lips upwards and he looks up at Brian, a little sheepish. 

"You love me?" 

As if struck by fever, Brian nods. He grasps Roger by the arms and holds him close. Letting him feel, or have just a taste of how desperate Brian is for him. He doesn't care that the whole of France is breathing down his neck. He is here for one person only.

" _I have come all this way to ask you, will you to marry me._ " He squeezes his eyes shut when Roger opens his mouth to answer or gape, but Brian continues before he can't act. before Brian forgets the script he has been practising again and again from dusk to dawn every day. He squeezes Roger's arms and inhales deeply, refreshed by the memory of Roger's scent and presence. 

" _I maybe insane. I do not know you. But the time we spent, is happiest of my life. No denying... Of course_ ," Brian forces his eyes to open again so he can actually look down at the one he loves so truly, with no more barriers between them. Roger's blank face gives away nothing as he waits patiently for Brian to finish his speech. " _I no expect you be as foolish like me. I fear, but expect you say no_."

He can't look away. He has to look him right in the eye. If he doesn't look him right in the eye, it doesn't count. He needs this one to count.

" _But it is Christmas._ " His heart is racing. His mouth is dry. " _And I just wanted to... Know._ "

He at east has the mind to loosen his grip on Rofer's arms. He let's go of him and with a sinking feeling of immense dread filling shame, he takes a step back.

Or, at least he tries. 

He is stopped by two strong arms grasping at his wrists and keeping him in place. Pinning him down from turning his back to Roger and his yearning eyes again. 

"Yes." He tugs Brian closer and that famous smile breaks free across his flushed face. "Yes! Yes, is being my answer."

Stunned by the proposal, Roger grabs Brian's face between his hands and presses his lips hard against his own to seal their engagement with a kiss. 

Every single person that had managed to cramp themselves into the tiny restaurant erupts into a round of applause. 

Neither Roger nor Brian pays them any mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone, enjoy your time and be safe. I hope you enjoyed this


End file.
